Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill) (5 page)

“You did that well.”

“What I had to—what do you want?” She blanched at the edge and a small, thin knife appeared, but in a rest position.

“Put that away and I will not hurt you.” She hesitated and the Beluga stepped forward pulling the new knife. The woman staggered back a few steps and put the blade away.

“My people are up north.” He nodded, but didn’t know what was meant by this.

“We could use,” she paused as though wondering how to say what was next, “someone
good
with their hands.”

Beluga smiled. “What’s your name kid?”

“I’m a woman.”

The Fay’s smile broadened. “Okay, sweetheart—what’s your name?”

She didn’t appear heartened by the romantic gesture—seemed more aggressive and dangerous than the first. “Synon.” Anxious defiance in the voice. “Your name?”

“Titus Pym. How far north?”

“It’s a ways, but we can offer you safety and anonymity.”

“From what?” Pym was getting anxious again.

“From knowing you’re from the boat that blew up—everyone will be wanting to trade you back to the blockade, or the Governor.”

“I won’t be.”

“They might kill you—or make you a slave.”

“A great town you have here.”

Synon shrugged, but said nothing. Titus held a hand out to the woman and she took this. As she approached, the moon again cut out from behind a cloud, and the soft light illuminated the woman a little more. Her pupils were islands of pitch in white seas—these last were clear and wholesome. The skin was a deep chocolate brown, smooth, and unblemished. Her breasts, what he could see within the shapeless shirt she was wearing, were small and firm—she was young. Her body, inside the equally loose pants, was firm, almost hard. Synon’s handshake was stronger than necessary, which said to him that she was compensating. That made sense—a woman alone on the docks.

“It’s a nightmare, but it’s home.”

“How far north?” Pym repeated the question.

“I have no car and public transport is pretty much dead down here after dark, so we got a good two hours by foot, if you don’t dawdle.”

“I’ll try to keep up. But there won’t be any trouble up there?”

“Not if you don’t bring it. Like I said, we need people who can handle themselves in a fight.” Saying so, she walked past him and back towards the main road. There was little choice—Pym didn’t know the city and had no friends. He needed both. Turning, he followed the woman.

 “Hold up.” Synon said, after they’d been cutting along the edge of the main road for almost an hour.

“What is it?” he said, adjusting the backpack. The weight wasn’t yet bad, but each kilo was beginning to wear him down. By the end of this hike, each kilo would feel like five. Pym knew he would have to get used to this and fast—unless something unexpected happened and he came into possession of a car and fuel. This seemed unlikely, considering the condition of the city and its lack of local resources—fuel, most especially, had to be imported. He learned on the Beluga that they were more interested in medical supplies and food.

The serums hadn’t worked so far, but food managed to keep the Governor in control and the social system from collapsing. Still, this left little room for luxuries like fuel—at least through the blockade of the city. Titus had heard rumors the national government had done a deal with some on the multi-national force now offshore to get fuel through, but this was supposed to be used for the national police force and the militia drawn from military and ex-military caught out when the Sweats began and the nation closed off the city for fear of this breaking out amongst the general population. It was not long after this that the East put together a multi-national blockade to keep the epidemic from becoming a pandemic.

Even so, some level of commerce continued between the country and the multinationals. The only other choice would have been to seal the country off and let the Sweats and starvation do for the archipelago. That would have created a whole nation of people willing to do anything to escape. Eventually, some would make it off the islands; and those could carry the Sweats East. The West was reasonably safe because of the thousands of kilometers of open sea between the end of the archipelago and landfall. However, eastward, it was a different story. East, the Sweats could island hop until it hit a long island chain, and then it was one rough sea crossing to the mainland and hundreds of overcrowded cities. After landfall, it would only be a matter of months, perhaps weeks, before the continent was infected. If that occurred, the collapse of civilization would follow.

By far the better choice was to blockade the archipelago, feed them, and offer what experimental vaccines there were. Each month seemed to bring a wide variety of new ones, many of these almost as dangerous as the Sweats. Though not a new vector, these treatments had managed to create a high enough death rate so that few, but the most desperate, were willing to try them. This was what Pym had landed in—his choice to row ashore, rather than out to incarceration and suspicion, was beginning to look less and less wise.

“I need to take a look at that arm,” Synon said as he wrestled his pack to the ground.

Titus glanced at it, and the sleeve was soaked.

“Take off the shirt or I’ll have to tear the sleeve. Maybe you’ll be wanting to keep the garment whole—replacements are hard to come by.”

Titus took off the shirt and sat down on the pack. He was feeling a little light headed. Perhaps that meant he was tired—probably it had something to do with blood loss and hunger. “You have anything to eat?”

“No,” taking out a field kit, “that’s what we’re going to go looking for when we get there.”

“What’s the damage?” glancing down at the arm.

“Soft tissue—the muscle appears untouched. I should sew it up, though.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Often—even before.”

“Really?”

“Not a wealthy country and doctors are expensive.” Cleaning the wound with alcohol, she threaded a suturing needle and set to work. After a few minutes, she’d finished, and they were on their way. Synon had been better than Titus had expected, and though painful, it could have been a lot worse.

“How much further?” Titus asked, adjusting the pack. They’d been back on the road for a while, and he was starting to need a rest. Being almost blown up and attacked four times over the course of the evening was beginning to take its toll. On top of this, he was still looking back over his shoulder—still unclear if he’d left behind the hold.

“We’re almost there. When we arrive, let me do the talking—and don’t let them see you’re tired. I understand what you’ve been up against, I think, but they won’t feel understanding.”

“Make certain your people don’t try anything—I may be tired...” Pym didn’t finish, and Synon looked back and nodded. They travelled the rest of the way in silence. Eventually, the buildings and roads opened up, and there was even the occasional sound of a truck. Normally, Synon shied away from these, but as tired as he was, Pym wasn’t interested in why. His interests now were in finding some place to sleep, or to get a few minutes’ rest.

“Stop.” Synon spoke quietly, holding up a hand. Suddenly people were stepping out from alcoves, alleys, and shattered doorways. The neighborhood was rough looking, but these people didn’t seem to fit. They were the most forlorn, raggedy group of people Titus had yet seen in the city, or anywhere else.

“These? I’m supposed to be afraid of these?”

“They mayn’t look much, but they’ll have your back if they accept you.” Titus chuckled at that, and a young man stepped up. Swinging wide at Pym, the latter laughed as he stepped between the man’s arms. Blocking the blow with the injured arm, he drove his fist, holding the pipe, into his face. The younger folded with a moan.

“No!” An older woman ran out from the same place the younger appeared, and Pym turned on her.

“Don’t.” Synon put a hand on his shoulder. “His mother.”

“That’s what you have to offer? A kid and an old woman?”

“No, but there are a lot of those.”

He heard a man’s voice, a little low and on the high side of forty. As the voice stepped out, Pym had judged correctly. He was in early middle years, but looked hard and filthy—most appeared as though they had not bathed in a long time. If he thought Synon looked rough, these were much worse. Pym, supposing it could not hurt, took a step back, attempting to keep all the new arrivals equidistance from him. They did not seem dangerous so much as pathetic, but he could be wrong about that.

“You lead these?”

“My name’s Bannly, and no, but I help where I can.”

That sounded like leadership to Pym, but he wasn’t interested in arguing.

“This,” Synon stepped up, “is Titus Pym. He killed a man down on the docks, by Zampton’s.”

“Why would you do that?”

“He tried to...”

Bannly interrupted the girl. “Let him tell it.”

“Followed me from the bar, I think. Wanted what I had.”

“And you weren’t interested in sharing.”

“He didn’t want a share—besides, you earn a share.”

“As you do here.”

“That,” Synon answered, “is why I brought him.”

“You,” the boy’s mother answered, “should have asked first.”

“You people,” Titus bit back, “look like you can use all the help you can get.”

“We do.” Bannly seemed to have begun this as a question, but midway into the thought it became a statement.

“What can you do for me?”

Synon looked at him in amazement.

“We can give you a place to belong. If that isn’t enough, we can give you a place to hide from what the city would do to you if they knew you were from the blockade.”

“Not from that, the Beluga was carrying medical supplies and food.”

“You save any of it?” the injured boy asked from his mother’s arms.

Pym shook his head.

“What happ...” Bannly began.

“Another time, maybe.” Titus answered. Bannly didn’t appear satisfied, but allowed it to go. Pym supposed he’d greater concerns.

“Still want to join us?” the elder asked.

Pym nodded, but was not certain this was the best idea.

“Okay then, we’re heading out at dawn, so you’ve got a couple hours of sleep coming.”

“Where are you people located?” Synon looked at him quizzically. “Where’s your place?”

“You’re standing in it.”

He looked around at the ruined neighborhood and smiled. “We’ll sort that out later.” Bannly looked at him askance but didn’t bother to enquire what he meant.

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

“There’s a latrine around the corner.” Synon called after him, pointing.

Nodding, Titus followed the hand but wasn’t looking for the latrine.

Several minutes later, he returned without the pack.

“We could have taken care of that for you,” Bannly said.

“No problem.”

The old man seemed to understand without being told and took it no further. When Bannly had gone, Synon took him to an upper floor with a door.

“This one’s got a dead bolt so you’ll feel safe enough to sleep, but no one will harm you here—or try.”

Pym smiled at the last.

Synon appeared to want to stay with him, but until he’d a better understanding of these people, he’d be sleeping in a locked room with one eye open. The evening had taught him that much. It seemed, however, he’d just gotten to sleep when Bannly was knocking on the door.

“Time there, Titus.” They wound their way out of the derelict district—though Synon said it was one of the better districts in town, excepting for the middle class and wealthy neighborhoods now heavily guarded—in an almost straight line. There were, occasionally, distant sounds of traffic, but this was never heavy—though the individual vehicles sounded this.

“Police and Militia,” Synon answered as he stopped to listen. “They don’t normally come down here unless they are looking for us.”

“You the only ones here?”

“Organized, yes.”

“Organized—this is organized?”

She wasn’t happy with the tone and replied in clipped, stressed syllables. “You’ve been here one night and not seen more than the docks and us—wait ’til you’ve seen more before you judge us.”